


A Brother's Love

by ShinSolo



Category: 30 Seconds to Mars
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:58:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinSolo/pseuds/ShinSolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s everything you’re not, and everything you hate. But you do love him – you have to love him – just not the same way he loves you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brother's Love

You hear him before you see him, and the sound of his laughter turns your stomach. And when he pushes his way through the door to your bedroom and lays down uninvited on your bed, you have no choice but to remain silent. If you protest, or tell him to go away, it will only make the situation even more uncomfortable. He will pout or complain. He’ll ask you what your problem is. He’ll remind you that the house is in his name, not yours. He’ll make you feel even worse than you already feel simply because he’s in the same room with you.

 

He props his feet up on the mattress, and lets his head sink back into your pillow. He’s still wearing his shoes, something you have asked him not to do so many times you’ve lost count. And as he rolls over onto his side to look at you, his lips turned up in a perfect smirk, you can only think of how hard it’s going to be to remove the smeared eyeliner from the white linen pillowcase.

 

You know he’s bored before he even tells you. You also know that he’s in here because he expects you to fix it, to entertain him. You know that the thought that you might actually be busy with your own work never crosses his mind.

 

He leans over you and pulls the book you have been reading out of your hands, folds down the top corner of the page, and lets it drop to the floor with a thud. He does all of this without asking if you are finished reading for the time being, without taking into consideration that there is an actual bookmark pressed between two of the other pages, and that you never fold the corners of your books down – at least, not when you can help it.

 

“Shannon?” He says, his voice soft and his breath ghosting over your cheek as he leans in closer toward you. “What are you thinking?”

 

“Nothing,” you lie, turning away from him because you can’t admit the truth. You can’t let him know how you really feel about him.

 

He’s your brother, and you do love him – you have to love him – just not the same way he loves you. Even now, his hands are moving across your body and his lips are leaving a wet trail along your jaw and down your throat, but instead of enjoying yourself like you know most people would, you’re fighting off the urge to push him away.

 

His fingers are callused, and even when your eyes are closed, you can see his fingernails, the polish chipped and chewed down nearly to the quick. You know the human hand is crawling with hundreds of different kinds of germs and bacteria, and the mere thought of him putting his fingers in his mouth makes you cringe, a cringe he mistakes for a shudder, a sign that he’s doing the right thing and shouldn’t stop.

 

“You like that,” he whispers as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer and forcing onto your side. “Don’t you, Shannon?”

 

You don’t answer him, but your eyes lock with his for a moment as his hand works its way up the front of your shirt, his nails dragging along your side in such a way that you have to look away. He chuckles.

 

“You know you do,” he teases, leaning forward to kiss you.

 

His lips are nowhere near as soft as they look. Instead, they’re chapped and slightly moist from his spit, but his mouth is warm and you close your eyes, trying to imagine that it is someone else kissing you, that it is someone other than your little brother in your bed, and that they are there because you invited them, not because they barged in without asking, demanding your attention.

 

You bring your hand up to the side of his face and rub your thumb over his cheekbone, but the stubble you find jerks you out of whatever false reality you might have been able to reach otherwise. He looks better clean-shaven anyways, yet he never listens to your suggestions, or anyone else’s for that matter.

 

He’s taller, younger, more successful, and there isn’t a person in the western world that hasn’t at least heard his name or seen one of his films. 30 Seconds to Mars was your band – your dream – just as much as it was Jared’s, but no one ever seems to remember. But his image dominates the media world that surrounds you, forcing you to live not your own life, but within the wake of your brother’s name. You are not Shannon Leto; instead, you’ll forever be Jared’s brother.

 

This is true even within your own family. Your own mother turns to Jared, greets Jared, responds to Jared, and acknowledges Jared first – only remembering you in the aftermath, once everything has quieted down and returned to normal, after Jared’s said what he wanted to say and done what he wanted to do. And even though she denies it, you know she loves him more.

 

The whole world loves him more.

 

How ironic is it that he can have anyone he wants, yet he wants you, the one person who has to most reason to despise him?

 

He’s everything you’re not, and everything you hate.

 

Even now, your fingers are up his ass, twisting around inside of him, and he’s lying beneath you moaning like a whore, his legs spread and cheeks flushed, but you still don’t find him beautiful. Instead, you see him as just another failure, a Hollywood train-wreck, reduced to begging for sex from his own brother’s bed.

 

He pulls you toward him, his lips crushing against yours, telling you how much he needs you, begging to feel you inside of him. And for reasons unknown to you, you give him what he wants, just like everybody else.

 

But as you go to turn him over, he grabs onto your upper arm in protest, his eyes locking with yours in a silent plea, and once again, you know what he wants before he even has to ask.

 

“Not that way,” he says, pulling you to him for another kiss. “I want to be able to see you, face to face.”

 

You can’t help but realize how romantic those words would have been if only you had wanted to see him as well; if the mere thought of having to fuck him face to face didn’t take the pleasure out of it.

 

You don’t say a word to him as you let go of him, allowing him to lie back on his back. And as he smiles up at you, you can’t help but wish the smile was fake instead of genuine. Because if it was fake, the same smile that he uses for everyone else, then maybe you can pretend that he’s pretending as well, that you are both using and humoring one another, that he isn’t actually in love with you.

 

While you fuck him, you keep your eyes closed and talk dirty to him, not out of pleasure or because you get off on hearing yourself speak, but because by doing so you are able to drown out some of the sounds he’s making. You can talk over the way his nails scrape against the fabric of the bed sheets as he holds onto them to keep from breaking your skin. You can ignore him when he tells you how close he is, that he’s about to come. You can keep fucking him until you reach your own orgasm without having to worry about whether or not you’re hurting him.

 

And afterwards, as you pull out and roll off of him, he wraps his arms around your waist and cuddles closer to you, his eyes closed and breathing slightly irregular.

 

“I love you so fucking much,” he says as he tightens his hold on you and lays his head on your shoulder, his lips pressing a kiss to your throat.

 

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice soft and fingers gently running through his sweaty hair.

 

And it’s not a lie, because you really do love him – you love to hate him.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written 02/13/2008.


End file.
